The Honeymoon
by antipholusluciana
Summary: Christopher and Sam visit a Scottish castle during their honeymoon, but soon find they haven't left mystery-solving behind at work.
1. Chapter 1

_May 1942 _

_Chapter 1_

DCS Christopher Foyle put down his orange juice and watched his young bride shade her eyes against the morning sunlight flooding Castle Craiggary, the usually dark and imposing structure clinging to the cliffs above their hotel. Sam had admitted that she was greatly looking forward to visiting it, probably because she had always loved legends of knights and princesses and castles.

She'd imparted this to him as they sat before the fireplace in his house in Steep Lane nearly two years ago—well before they were married, or even fully aware of their feelings for each other. Sam had ended up staying there after she found herself with nowhere to live. She had been bombed out of her digs at Mrs Harrison's, and with billets as difficult to find as they then had been, she had even resorted to the plank-like bed in one of the station's cells.

When Foyle had noticed her stretched out on it late one evening, he suggested with some exasperation that she could use Andrew's room—he was away training with the RAF—until she was able to find something suitable.

The week she had spent in Foyle's house had given him an inkling of how comfortably they would get along together, and the first stirrings of his attraction to her had been encouraged by having her so close, sharing meals and talks beside the fire afterward.

Then, as now, he never tired of watching firelight or sunshine play upon her copper hair, or of enjoying the bright intelligence in her wide dark eyes.

Sam felt his warm gaze even as she enjoyed the sun's warmth. She turned her smile full upon him, very much as she had two years before when he had admired her in the blue dress just before her date with Antonio. He told her as much now.

She blushed slightly. "Do you remember when I made a point of telling you that Tony wasn't really my type, but that I just didn't want to let him down?"

He nodded, and she went on, "I think I wanted you to know that I already regretted accepting the date—especially right in front of you."

Foyle stroked the top of her hand with one finger, making her shiver with awareness.

"All I knew was that I was sure when I looked at you that you _couldn't_ let anyone down. And the way you looked at me afterwards made my heart skip several beats."

Sam held his hand and wished—not for the first time—that she hadn't let so much time go by before letting Christopher know clearly how she felt about him.

Foyle poured a cup of tea one-handed, unwilling to be released just yet. "Which was it… Gawain, who was the green knight? Was he called that because he wore green surcoats?" He looked up at the medieval Scottish building on the cliffs.

Sam considered his eyes carefully, wondering whether it was a genuine question or if he was teasing her.

_Not enough twinkle there, he must really want to know._

"No, he was famous for battling a green knight; a man who was literally green. But Gawain was known for his courtesy, especially to women. Rather the patron knight of Sir Christopher Foyle, I'd say."

Her husband lightly caressed her hand from the wrist to her knuckles; then squeezed softly.

_Almost too polite to ever let Sam know how I felt._

It finally had happened only because _she_ had enough courage to tell him how much she cared. Courage for which he so admired her, among the many other reasons. He had hoped, but never dared to let himself hope too much; he was sufficiently older than she that he tended to think that she was better off without him.

Christopher Foyle was not certain exactly when he had begun to feel a restless, slightly nervous pleasure every time he was in the company of his young driver. He was determined not to let Samantha know about it, as he knew the difference in their ages made the notion absurd and unfair, but his feelings were too strong—too _real_—to entirely put them out of his mind. He often found himself fantasising that her sidelong glances at him and her playful, sometimes almost flirtatious banter, were more than just a fondness for a father figure.

And, had he but known, they were.

Christopher's gentle concern for Sam rested easily beside his egalitarian treatment of her and it had made her all the more in awe of him, but what impressed her most was his profound compassion for his fellow human beings. It was not something that was obvious about him. Indeed, a witness speaking to him was likely to assume from his expression that he disapproved—his visage would be still, and he would listen quietly, but attentively, sometimes almost scowling in thought. He would then often surprise the other with an observation or some insight that showed with remarkable empathy that he understood exactly how a particular situation had arisen. Fortunately, he was equally able to see clearly a criminal's dishonesty or perfidy.

One fine autumn day, some months after Sam had started working for Foyle, he was talking to her about conditions in London. She thought it quite amazing how he could express anger at the ineptitude of the way matters were being handled, yet understand how difficult it was for the authorities to handle them any better, while also making it clear how much he sympathised with the people who were struggling there just to keep their heads above water.

Listening to the soft timbre of his voice, she had glanced at his profile in that moment and felt a sudden jolt. Moments later when they emerged from the Wolseley, his glance lingered.

"Sam? You all right?"

She had nodded, snapping out of the dazed way she had been looking at him; she realised that she cared for him, and not only thought objectively that he was attractive, but was powerfully drawn to him.

It was the first time Foyle had seen such an expression on her face. She had often bestowed upon him her gloriously sunny smile, of course; but he had seen her direct that at Sgt Milner, too. He was surprised that day at how quiet she had become—almost shy. _Shy?_ Sam?

To alleviate the unaccustomed silence as they made their way back to the police station, he ventured, "I'm wondering whether Norwood was ever up in London at all."

Sam looked thoughtful.

"Well, I suppose you could ask Ben Mantle, sir."

"Good idea."

He was further surprised to see her faint blush at his praise.

In contrast with her usual behaviour, Sam had been almost relieved to bid him goodnight and get back to her digs. She needed time to think.


	2. Chapter 2

A few months thereafter Sam had accepted a few "dates" with Andrew Foyle, in an effort to deny her feelings for his father and in hopes of finding a more appropriate version of them. It wasn't much of a courtship, given the amount of time Andrew was away, but as an exchange of affectionate letters and a few depressingly chaste kisses, it had lasted slightly more than a year.

Andrew had that cocksure quality so many boys had, and one that always rather put her off—he'd had a line the very first time he saw her. Not that she had held a grudge when Mr Foyle asked her to take Andrew out and get his mind off his injuries… that was just the way of young men, she'd philosophised. Now, older men… _they_ could be more courtly and communicate their attraction in a much more thrilling way. _At least,_ she mused, _I __**think**__ that's what Mr Foyle is doing…_

She had noticed how appreciatively the detective looked at her when she was dressed for a special occasion—his regard may not have been paternal, but he certainly didn't look at her in an inappropriate fashion. It was... warm. It made her feel feminine and admired; more attractive than she had upon glancing at her finished ensemble in the mirror.

_It could be he just admires you without feeling anything emotional about you,_ Samantha argued with herself. But then she remembered the times their gazes had met and held. Did he feel the intense longing that she thought she saw in his eyes?

The American Joe Farnetti's bold approach had been even more blunt than Andrew's, and she had felt increasingly uncomfortable with his immediate insistence that he accompany him to a movie. Mr Foyle and Captain Kieffer had entered the station lobby just at that moment, and the protective way that Mr Foyle had asked "You all right?" (having immediately summed up the situation) had filled her with warmth and affection for him. After the Americans had departed he'd teased her about Farnetti being her "Clark Gable," but all she could think of, her eyes aglow at her boss, was how amusing it was that he'd think she could possibly prefer the company of that brash young man to his.

Andrew had broken things off with her just this past April. The night of the Americans' dance, she had set out determined to have some fun despite his cowardly "Dear Jane" letter.

When to her surprise she'd met Mr Foyle entering the Americans' billet for the dance, he'd placed his hand on the small of her back for a moment to guide her through the door, giving her an unexpected little thrill that she'd covered with the inane comment, "They have wonderful doughnuts," eliciting a gentle chuckle from him.

Trying out the jitterbug with Private Farnetti had been fun, but she kept wondering hopefully if a gentler-paced tune might inspire her boss to ask her to dance. He seemed to keep at the edge of things with Milner, talking with him and Mr Pritchett the accountant, or chatting with the American soldiers. When poor Susan Davis' body was discovered, Captain Kieffer had announced that the dance was over and herded most of the unsuspecting crowd out of the old school building.

The following day she had been aware of a subtle curtness from DCS Foyle, to whom it must have seemed that she was not being altogether true to his son. Little could she know that Foyle was suffering with mixed feelings about the very concept of her walking out with Andrew. He knew his son was not the steadiest type romantically, despite his basic integrity. When Sam had finally confided in him that Andrew had thrown her over, he had been torn between the unbidden thrill in his heart that she was free again and exasperation with his son for treating her so shabbily.

That late afternoon Sam had sat in one of the interrogation rooms, waiting for her boss to finish work. She drew a deep sigh, thinking about the whole situation with Andrew.

Her pride had been a little hurt by Andrew's tactless rejection, but there was something else she'd felt as she sat reading his letter, she remembered now. Something she couldn't quite recognise at the time for what it was: relief. That, and a sense of freedom to… to what? That was when she had decided to attend the dance to get her mind off all the strange confusion she'd begun to feel.

Foyle's face, when she told him about the letter, was sorrowful and sympathetic and… beautiful. She knew he understood and no longer blamed her for anything. His voice was so very gentle when he thanked her for letting him know. It was a great solace, and at the same time, something about the whole exchange had shaken her. Some escaping spark in his eyes had reflected the feelings she'd puzzled over as she sat on the stairs with Andrew's crumpled letter in her hand.

_He was relieved, too._ It struck her like an electric shock. He was glad she was no longer dating Andrew, and it wasn't because he wondered about how good a match his son might be for her. It was because he cared about her himself. Sam suddenly felt one notch away from certain. She had to find out whether she was right. But when? How, exactly?


	3. Chapter 3

Sam glanced up at the clock. Mr Foyle would be coming out any moment now, she imagined. She walked into the corridor, which was dim with the fading afternoon sunlight.

"Sam?" His voice from behind her was soft, questioning.

"Sir." She stopped, looking at him expectantly, maybe even a little warily, as she didn't know exactly what he might want to talk about, or how he might be feeling about their earlier interactions.

Mr Foyle approached her, hat literally in hand.

"Listen, I should apologise. I've made, umm… judgments about you, about your personal life—which I had absolutely_ no_ right to do, and as a result I—uh—I might have spoken out of turn."

She flushed slightly as he quietly uttered this. He managed for the most part to maintain eye contact until he finished, then bowed slightly in remorse, sounding as if he might be about to say something more, then falling silent. He looked acutely uncomfortable, but endearingly sincere. She adored him.

"It's quite all right, sir," she reassured him. "I should have said something earlier."

"Well… I'm sorry about Andrew." He glanced at her briefly, then looked floorward again.

She floundered for something to say, then gave a mock-cavalier shrug as she blamed the reliable source for most of their ills. "It's the war, isn't it?"

He drew a deep breath as quietly as he could as he sought her eyes. _She was so brave,_ he thought, not for the first time. _Strong and vulnerable at the same time._ He wanted so desperately to hold her, and yet it was the worst possible time to have such a notion, he knew.

He conquered the urge and nodded slightly. "'S'pose so."

Sam turned to continue down the hall, raising one hand to her brow to hide from him how overwhelmed she was by the expression she had caught on his face. For just one second she'd wondered if she might not end up in his arms. She tried to get her widened eyes back to normal and asked nervously, "Can I give you a lift home?"

He stopped, thought about it. "No… I'll walk home. You get an early night." Their eyes locked again. Just as he turned away, Sam chirped, "Sir?"

She cleared her throat as he paused and then turned back to her.

"I… I don't suppose you might like to join me in a drink?" She couldn't meet his eyes.

His heart surged momentarily, though he rigidly controlled his features and prepared to answer in a calm voice. Just at that moment Captain Kieffer entered the station doors and greeted Foyle heartily.

"Christopher! So you finally caught the killer, hey?"

"Yep."

"And it wasn't the wicked American."

"It wasn't."

"I guess Lord Haw-Haw will be sorry about that. Oh, excuse me, Miss Stewart. Good evening."

Sam nodded, her heart sinking with the knowledge that the American captain would probably invite Mr Foyle out for a drink, and she'd miss the chance to tell him how she felt while she'd summoned up the rare courage to do so.

"Look," Kieffer sighed and looked steadily at Foyle, glancing at Sam, but seeming not reluctant to speak out in her presence. "I wanna say I'm sorry, OK? This business about the girl. I'm new here… I know how you British are always murdering each other—" (at this, Christopher's face crinkled in wry amusement) "but I didn't expect to get caught up in it like that, so, uh—maybe I behaved like a jerk."

Foyle's clear blue eyes were kind. "Well… you did what you thought was right." He gave one of those slight movements of his head that always so eloquently underlined whatever he had just said.

"Could we put all this behind us?" Kieffer asked eagerly.

"Of course."

"Good. And in the interest of furthering British-U.S. friendship, I happen to have a quart of Jack Daniels in my jeep. Don't suppose you'd care to come back to base and help me in drinking it, would you?" He winked almost imperceptibly at Sam, who tried to smile.

Christopher didn't even look at her as he smilingly shook his head. "I'd love to, at some time, John. But I do already have another appointment. What is it you call it? A raincheck? Could I take one of those?"

Captain Kieffer smiled back and simply shook Foyle's hand. "Sure could. I'll meet you for lunch tomorrow at the restaurant down the block from Briant Brothers?"

Foyle nodded agreeably, while privately wondering what constituted a "block".

Kieffer left them, musing that Christopher was one lucky dog if half of what he imagined were true. That girl had positively beamed when Foyle had declined his invitation. Kieffer already had ideas about how Foyle felt about his driver; just the way his eyes lit up when Kieffer asked how she was, and the smolderingly jealous way Foyle had watched her dance last night with one of his men. During their peaceful afternoon at the river he had asked Foyle if he thought he would ever marry again. The policeman had remained silent for a time, then answered, "Probably not meant to be." How John knew that he was thinking about the red-haired young "broad in uniform" (as Farnetti would so crassly put it) who'd driven him to the talk, he wasn't sure, but somehow he did know. Kieffer smiled as he left the station. Christopher was a good man and he wished him happiness.

* * *

April's first week had ended and still the weather had not become as spring-like as might be desired. The evening was crisp and cold as autumn. Neither Christopher nor Samantha said a word as they drove the short distance to The Plume of Feathers. He kept trying to quell his hopes that she had anything more to talk about than Andrew's breakup with her, but he was finding it difficult. She was glad for the steering wheel on which to brace her hands, so that he couldn't see them shaking. At the pub they took a seat close to the fireplace and he asked her if she would like anything to eat.

Sam surprised him by shaking her head. She smiled at his expression. "Not just now, anyway," she added, laughing. The moment relaxed both of them slightly. After their drinks had arrived he looked at her somewhat expectantly.

She took a breath.

"Thank you, sir, for passing up Captain Kieffer's invitation on my behalf."

He shook his head once, his expressive face needing no words: no question that he would have done the same for any friend who'd invited him first.

"Not at all. I'd have only had too much to drink with him, to prove that we can keep up with the Americans, and I don't need to do that to mark the closing of the case." His smile teased, but Sam felt her heart flip over. She swallowed hard.

"Well…" She fell silent.

A look of concern came over his face, though he still smiled slightly. "What's wrong, Sam? Is it about Andrew?"

"Erm. Indirectly, I suppose, yes," she said, her words hesitant. "I've been thinking a lot about his letter, and I wanted you to know that you aren't to worry about me. I think I'm actually quite relieved to have received it, although it muddled me at first."

He nodded in understanding, genuinely relieved for her that she wasn't in pain.

"That's… good, isn't it?"

Sam looked into his eyes and thought she saw a flicker of … trepidation? Worry? If only she could now read his thoughts, as she'd found she sometimes could. He had a bit of a shield up just now, however.

"I was happy to try to cheer up Andrew when you asked me to, sir… and I was flattered that he went on to ask me out later. But I don't think I accepted him for the right reasons."

Foyle nodded, uncertain whether to coax her to say more. He remained silent, but was obviously listening carefully.

His lined face and attentive eyes looked very handsome in the firelight, and Sam smoothed up one side of her hair and then kept her eyes on her hands as she went on.

"We… we had a few dates and we wrote to each other for all that time, but it never was a grand passion, really. What I found was that when he—" She hesitated. Was this the right thing to be telling his father? Special circumstance; yes. Sam blushed. "…When he... um... kissed me, I didn't feel what I think I should have felt." Her eyes flickered upward to check his reaction; he was studying the table in contemplation, as he might when questioning a witness, but she had no doubt that she held his entire attention.

"So I began to wonder why it was that I had kept on trying to make something out of what was actually very little between us."

Although Foyle was glad to be hearing all of this, he also remained uncertain and guarded. What was the dear woman working up to?

Sam risked a longer look at his face, and saw him characteristically twisting his lips upward on one side, chewing the inside of his mouth. She was not at all sure how he could be just as appealing to her as ever when contorting his face thus, but he was.

He caught her gaze and she stared into his eyes, hoping she could stop talking now and just have him _know _in that way that he often did_._

"Sam…" he shifted restlessly, his fingers grasping his glass. "Did you ever figure out why?"

Not breaking their eye contact, she nodded. Then, brave Sam took a chance. "I figured out that I was trying to have feelings for one Foyle because I wasn't sure I should be having them for another."

His eyes widened abruptly, and she waited in suspense for him to laugh, or to raise his eyebrows and show embarrassment. He opened his mouth to speak, but somehow nothing would emerge. When finally he did speak, his voice was soft. "Shouldn't be having feelings for a man who was too old for you, you mean."

Sam was pained by his defeated expression. Not even conscious of doing so, she lay her hand on his. "That wasn't it at all. I thought I shouldn't be having feelings for my boss… for someone older… but what does 'too old' mean? You may be older, but that does not mean 'too old.' At least, not to my way of thinking.

"I once thought, just as Andrew bent to give me a goodnight kiss, 'You could pretend that it's Christopher instead,' but then I realized that if I had done, I'd have kissed him back much more warmly, and the encouragement would not have been honest."

Sam's expression was flushed but earnest. Her desire for him to know outweighed her difficulty with the subject matter.

Christopher coloured, turning his hand until his palm touched Sam's, wrapping his fingers softly around hers. His voice shook. "Oh, Sam…"

She took courage from his gesture, and looked at him with a plea in her face. "Am I a fool to want this? Do you think I'm too young for you?"

He pulled the hand he was holding toward his lips and unbent her fingers to kiss her palm. She actually thought she would faint, and started to tremble.

"Are you cold?" He asked anxiously. "Here—" he rose and guided her to sit beside him, their backs to the fireplace. Sam breathed a sigh both contented and uneasy, fighting the urge to nestle her head on his shoulder; it could be that his concern was fatherly, and that he had no idea what any sort of kiss from him could do to her.

At the same moment each of them glanced at the bartender, who, though quite buried in the racing form, was standing only a few feet away.

"I think we'd be warmer…" She stopped, wincing. What did she think she was doing, inviting herself to his home? But she just wasn't certain they could talk alone at her lodgings.

Foyle sighed deeply, trying with a dip of his head to raise the eyes she had cast down in her agitation. Again Sam had shown such courage, and again he had the urge to hold her that he had felt in the corridor of the station—except it was magnified. He yearned to feel the kiss that Sam had imagined she would return if he—_he!_—were the one kissing her. Finally he knew it was time for him to let his diffidence fall away and tell her that he felt everything that she did; but this was not the place.


	4. Chapter 4

Samantha had wandered nervously into Mr Foyle's front room as he followed her through the front door, but she moved back towards him as he simultaneously clicked it shut and hung up his hat. In an instant he held her in his arms at last.

As Christopher let his lips touch hers he felt as if he were falling from a great height, though with the knowledge that something beautifully soft was going to cushion the fall. In the pub he had realised they would require this privacy before he could even touch her hand again… now he was not going to be able to stop the sweet mad urgency of his exploration of Sam's mouth. Her response was not discouraging this in any way, either. Her lips opened to his tongue and she emitted a breathless moan of enthusiasm that only intensified his desire. He held one hand at the back of her neck and drank like a man parched in a desert; for it had been years since he had felt this kind of pleasure.

When at last they pulled apart and looked at each other, her eyes were aglow as they examined his; he had not seen her look this happy in months, he thought suddenly.

"I can't believe it," he whispered, willing himself not to take her lips again, as he knew how out of control he already felt.

She hugged him. "Oh, Christopher, I love you."

He shut his eyes tightly as his hand stroked her hair. "I love you, too, Sam. _I_ was hesitant, too. Thought I shouldn't let you know, because you'd be repulsed and I would lose you altogether."

"Repulsed!" She pushed him gently from her so that she could see his sweet clear eyes again. "I think I've loved you since… well, really only a few months after I met you… but I never dreamt that you could feel that way about me. Though I dreamt all the time about what it would be like if you only would."

Foyle was torn. He wanted nothing more than to kiss her again, but at the same time he feared that he might be unable to contain his passion. Something told him that Samantha would not be the one to hold the line, but he wanted her to be his wife before they went _that_ far.

Sam for her part was feeling dizzy with want of him; the touch of his tongue against hers had made her spasm with release instantly, and all she could think of was how much she wanted to feel that with Christopher deep inside her. She eagerly embraced him and kissed him with a passion so intense that he moaned deeply, causing her to buckle at the knees. She had to clutch his shoulders just to keep standing.

"Sam… my dear…" his voice was shaking. "Please, we have to stop." His resolve to brace his lower body away from hers melted as quickly as she melted again into him, and he felt himself grow hard against the soft valley between the top of her legs.

Her sweet sighs and ardent murmurs of his first name drove him to distraction, and he plunged his tongue into her mouth as his hands sculpted her body.

At first she held his head to hers, her fingers exploring the soft hair she had longed to touch, his ears and neck. When her hands slid to his waist and one reached down to feel the erection that strained his trousers, he grasped her by the wrist and gently pushed her away from him, breathing hard.

How he had managed to overcome desire of such a strength, he didn't know… he wasn't getting much assistance from his dear Sam, but she would understand as he explained it.

"It would mean so much to me if we were married first, dear one. It's old-fashioned, I know, but…"

She stared at him.

Oh, God. He had meant to ask a bit more ceremoniously than that. Now she would think he took her for granted.

"You want… you want to _marry_ me?" she asked him, joy brimming in her eyes.

"My dear, what do you think? …I didn't mean to propose in so peremptory a way," he muttered, pulling her into his arms again, "but heavens, yes, Sam. Please will you marry me?"

"Oh, yes, yes, a thousand times yes!" He could feel her smiling against his neck as her hands again played with his hair. She drew back to look at him slyly. "But do we really have to wait to be married before we… ?"

He laughed. "Yesss! But, Samantha…" he looked into her eyes and his next words made her shiver. "I can't wait long. What about next month? Will it give you time to prepare your family for it?"

Sam just hugged him. "They'll just _have_ to be ready. I'd marry you tomorrow. Oh, Christopher, if I'd ever thought…" She just shook her head in disbelief.

Somehow they had managed to honour his resolution, and now, exactly one month later, here they were on their honeymoon.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam's hand was still clasping her husband's as she sat enjoying this second breakfast of her honeymoon. A wedding trip to Scotland! Partly this was so that they could attend an important dinner given by Edinburgh's commissioner of police. But as Christopher had reminded her when they'd begun planning their wedding and their trip, it was also because she had once told him how cold she had been on a trip to Edinburgh she'd made with her father's ecumenical tour group. Sam's fiancé had informed her with twinkling eyes that he was taking her to Scotland, where he'd see to it that she was kept warm.

He had a similar impish look in his eyes right now, and Sam wondered what had prompted it.

"What are you thinking?"

Two nights ago had been their first as a married couple, and the level of passion they had shared at long last had shaken and thrilled them both.

"Well, I was just wondering how long it will take for someone to assume you're my daughter instead of my wife. Oh, it will happen, y'know."

Before she could object with her usual argument of how youthful he still was despite the twenty-five year head start he had on her, Foyle continued.

"I only mention it so that you won't feel you have to be upset about it on my behalf."

Sam smiled at Christopher's philosophical acceptance of this, but countered with a naughty grin, "Well, whenever someone makes that mistake, I think you should kiss me, then and there. Quite passionately, too, I should say."

Her husband gave her a look that she interpreted easily:

_Hmm, somehow I think not._

But the gleam of affection in his eyes was obvious to the young woman who was eminently capable of making him feel twenty years younger.

And his stamina made him seem more youthful to her than his years would warrant. They had made love passionately _twice_ on their wedding night, then again last night and even this morning. Sam shivered deliciously with the memory of it and felt the surging signs of her body's preparedness to test his stamina again.

"And what are _you_ thinking?"

Foyle's tone was distinctly mischievous, which made Sam blush deeply, much to his quiet delight.

* * *

The unsmiling but helpful keeper at the Argyll Arms had warned them that the Craiggarry Castle might chill them to the bone even in late May unless they took along wool coats. Thus advised, Christopher and Sam hiked up the hill to reach its entrance with warm garb draped over their arms.

By the time they had been led through the ancient building's lowest and dampest rooms they had donned their extra layer of wool. Their guide was fatuous enough that they felt no compunction in hanging back until they had surreptitiously got separated from the rest of the group. From the castle's entrance level they climbed up some steep spiraling stairs, then stood for a moment at one of the narrow turret openings and peered out.

"Pity one can't see the scope of the countryside better from up this high," Sam mused wistfully.

Her husband put his arm around her shoulders and bent his head towards hers to see out through the roughhewn vertical notch. "Perhaps higher still?"

They took to the stairs again until they could climb no more, stymied by a very wide and thick oak door that appeared to lock with a key, but would not open.

Sam tried to hide her disappointment. "Frustrating, that. But did you notice how beautiful this stonework is? Particularly the curving ones in the stairwell." As they made their way down, they examined more carefully the deep, bluish grey stones, punctuated by lighter, almost silvery ones, and in so doing were not as alert as might be; Sam tripped at one point on their trek down and found herself sitting at his feet in an instant. Her self-effacing smile up at him assured him that she was all right, although she did rub her ankle for a moment before accepting his proffered hand. Then she paused a moment, sitting back on the step.

"Sam? Your ankle hurt?" Foyle glanced at her feet in concern.

"Yes, quite… quite all right, I mean… thought I saw…" Sam was feeling along the base of the step over which she had stumbled, and for a moment worked at a movable stone she had felt below the cap until she was able to extract it altogether. "Gosh, look, Christopher!"

She held up an iron key, so sizable and simple that it was the very model of the concept "key."

Foyle raised his eyebrows, murmuring "Well, well, well, well, well."

"Hidden behind this stone! Do you fancy trying it on our door?"

He smiled at her enthusiasm and nodded. "You're all right to stand, then?"

She nodded as she rose carefully, dusting her thick wool skirt. "Think I snagged my stocking, though. Will you mind being seen with such a slovenly girl?"

"Yes, of course, but I shall have to bear up under the shame of it."

He turned and led the way back to the top of the winding case. Excitedly Sam tried the great key, but it took both of them quite a lot of rattling and exerting to move the heavy lock. As true to cliché as its large key, the door groaned dramatically as they leaned upon it, warily peeking in.


	6. Chapter 6

They entered a vast room with whole slabs of stone comprising its walls. In contrast, the ceiling, though of average height, was intricately rib-vaulted in a gothic pattern. The room was furnished only in one corner; what looked like a sheet-covered desk and chair sat near the far wall.

"The Lord of the manor's quarters, I suppose," Sam murmured.

On the side of the chamber opposite the turret windows they'd looked from on the lower level, they spotted a wide leadlight window with side-by-side sashes of diamond-shaped panes. It opened out like a pair of doors, and the newlyweds looked with awe upon a breathtaking view of grass-covered mountains shadowed here and there by the clouds, the foremost of the range glowing like an emerald in the midday sun, the second one back shrouded by mist and appearing a mossier green; a still more distant one looking almost blue in the atmospheric light.

Foyle let his eyes wander from drinking this in to rest upon his wife's enchanted expression. At times she looked so impossibly lovely to him with her wide dark eyes sparkling and her sweet pink bow of a mouth, and this was one of those moments. He felt the urge to kiss her, but was afraid she would think it meant he didn't appreciate the gorgeous picture before them. In truth it was the sheer beauty of all of it—of the scene, of her—that was overwhelming his senses.

Sam beamed at him. "Christopher? Isn't this magical?"

He glanced back out and nodded with a tiny smile, his eyes alight. He was looking directly at her again as he said, "Beautiful."

Her smiling eyes and a funny little crumpling of her chin seemed to say, _You silly bedazzled goose. _

Christopher put his arm around her waist and drew her near. "I think it's a wonderful omen, finding this treasure of a view."

"Hmm?"

"Well, it's rather a symbol, isn't it? Of the lands we've yet to explore together, and how lovely they promise to be?"

Her eyes became misty at his sentiment and she drew a long sigh of contentment. Her voice broke a bit on the words as she told him yet again how much she loved him, and leaned in to kiss him softly.

He gently nuzzled her ear and neck, enjoying the lilac scent of her hair, making her shiver with delight.

Sam's eyes were half-closed. "If you keep this up we shall have to lock the door from the inside."

He grinned at her. "My sweet insatiable wife…" He kissed her probingly, holding her waist tightly to support her as her legs weakened—he had learned that this flattering response was quite inevitable. Presently he rubbed her back soothingly as she laid her head against his shoulder and calmed herself. He was rather glad she didn't mean it about locking the door; this dusty floor looked none too comfortable to lie upon.

And Foyle could tell by her sidelong glance that Sam was curious about the covered furniture. He gave her a quick kiss on her forehead and led her toward the shrouded items.

As she peeked beneath a sheet to glimpse a gorgeously carved wooden secretary desk in several tones of polished wood, he noticed a document framed in glass upon the wall. It looked to be a crisp bit of parchment that had faded to a deep vanilla colour; the quill scratchings upon it also were only dimly apparent, but when they carried it to the window they were able to read the words upon it:

What's Brought Us to This Path

What's brought us to this path, dear,

We cannot say, nor know where next year

Leads us, but today the highlands'

Sweep, the brook's eternal whisper

And the smoky heaven that bends

To hear both brook and man

Bid us take our rest here

'Til what we're meant to know comes clear.

And when we look, dear, to the west,

To our dreams, to what will best

Be ours, the mountain's green proclaims

The luck that stands at our heels

And the dusky stones afoot yield a key

And the blue light remains

In our eyes past sun's last refrain

And the earth's heart holds a mystery.

Sam and Christopher looked at each other with widened eyes as they registered how apt the poem was to their own experience of the afternoon, and tears sprang into Sam's. "Whoever wrote this must have looked at just this view," she said softly. "And even then, the key to this room must have been hidden where I found it."

They made their way to tea rather later than Sam would normally wish, but for the first time she did not feel as deprived by the delay as she would have expected. During their return walk she had excitedly wondered about the possible story behind the hidden room and the poem, but her husband was uncertain whom they might ask about it—after all, perhaps they'd trespassed in exploring the room in the first place. But someone would know, they were sure. Time enough in the coming week to investigate.

_Thought we'd get a bit of a break from investigating, but…_

"Thank you so much for this wonderful day," she said, hugging his arm as they approached the tearoom.

"I liked it better once we wandered away from the tour," he laughed.

"Oh, well, part of it was interesting. It amazes me that they actually shackled prisoners in those dungeons," she mused. "Good job we haven't such Draconian measures at the station!"

"Mmm. Doubtless _some_ we've locked up might have benefited." Foyle's dry air of amusement belied his grim thoughts.

_So would some of the ones we didn't quite catch._

The murderer Howard Paige, for instance.

The DCS knew he would have to wait for the war to end. But it _would_ end, and then Foyle would find him.

_Who knows, perhaps Sam and I can journey to the States and even live there for a while._


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: I quite forgot to give credit where it's most definitely due last chapter, because I did not write the lovely poem that Sam and Christopher find in the castle. It was written by one of my dearest friends ever since junior high school, Miss Lavish. _

_At last things begin to heat up a wee bit in chilly Scotland…_

* * *

Christopher Foyle nearly dropped the cufflink he was fumbling with when he looked up to see Samantha in her gown. It was a black off-the-shoulders number that showed her creamy skin off to full advantage. Whatever fabric it was made of clung to her curves before falling to the floor in a wide loose swathe of material, and it didn't take his imagination long to wonder how it would feel beneath his hands if he caressed her waist.

Sam hadn't yet finished with her hair, but held some hair grips poised for the task. Her husband looked so handsome in his evening clothes that she felt distinctly weak at the knees as he came towards her with a look she could only describe as 'hungry'.

"Umm, Sam. You look…"

At a loss for words as usual, he trailed off. He never thought the word "beautiful" or even "lovely" quite summed the situation up, but she beamed at him, knowing how he was affected whenever he saw her dressed up. As he slipped his arms about her, his lips dropped lightly to her neck.

So gentle, and yet the soft touch set Sam on fire. She rolled her head back a little and moaned at the flick of his tongue.

"You'll get me all hot and bothered."

Her half-hearted scold made little impact. Christopher kissed her cheek and looked into her eyes with fond amusement. Sam sighed deeply, but couldn't help returning his smile. He seemed to keep her in a perpetual state of arousal.

"As it is I've already got to change my underwear once, you troublesome man…"

He inspected her flushed skin and decided that the rosy bloom would fade sufficiently for decent company in a few minutes, but he couldn't quite resist such a vision of tempting loveliness. He risked a quick look at his watch. Early yet.

"Well, before you do…"

He pushed her gently back on to the bed and pulled up the luxuriant skirt of the dress, placing it out of harm's way as he quickly pulled part of the bed's top sheet underneath Sam's hips to protect the skirt. Nothing loathe now that her outfit was safe, she arched her back in nervous anticipation as Christopher knelt to kiss her hipbone, then her thigh at the top of her stocking, before his wandering lips made it to the inside of her leg.

Sam propped herself up on her elbows to watch him; his downcast lashes hid his expression as he lightly kissed around the spot she was unconsciously most craving he would touch. Her breath caught. Was he really going to… ?

_Oh, God… yes, he was._

Christopher moved aside the soaked silk that kept him from his destination. He heard his wife's soft involuntary cry at the touch of his lips and tongue as he lovingly caressed the tender bud nestling in the golden curls. Although this was new to Sam, he knew that she trusted him in _all_ matters.

Her fingers grasped distractedly at his hair as Sam raised her hips to meet the source of this new intense sensation. What he was doing was so selfless and sweet, almost _worshipful, _but at the same time she felt deliciously wanton to have him touching her so intimately. Somehow he knew just what pace and pressure made her crazy with pleasure; she gasped breathlessly as she moved with this new rhythm.

Christopher could taste the light saltiness of his own contribution to Sam, but there also was a hint of her essence mixed with it, and when he dreamily dipped further to find more of that spice, he heard his darling's smothered scream. He almost came himself at the primal sound, but instead he concentrated on flickering her most sensitive spot until she was thrashing and moaning with abandon, her hands on her own breasts. He looked up at her dazed expression and with one last deep lick of her creamy cleft he felt her go taut with the force of her release. Her throaty cry of ecstasy as she softly exploded again and again made him close his eyes in quiet joy.

"Christopher, Christopher, Christopher…"

There was a wealth of emotion in her hoarse whisper; her head rocked from side to side as she stretched luxuriantly and returned to earth.

"Mmmn?"

He slid one hand slowly along her outer thigh as he moved up to softly kiss behind her ear; she was astounded to feel herself responding again mere seconds after such a climax.

She shivered when he nuzzled her ear and murmured, "There you go; not a mark on you." He gave her the suddenly widened eyes at the same time as his mouth crooked just faintly at one corner.

Sam blushed and laughed together, rendering her so breathtakingly beautiful that he had to fight the urge to press her into the bed and take care of his own aching need_. _At the look in her eyes he was very tempted to throw all caution to the wind, but he did not want his Sam to miss out on the promised elegant dinner, and she would hate arriving late.

Christopher took a deep breath and deftly adjusted his trousers for greater comfort as he stood and brushed any tell-tale stray lint from his knees.

Trying for 'determined', his voice cracked slightly, undermining his attempt at firmness.

"Ten minutes, Miss Stewart."

Sam shook her head with wonder, propped upright on her arms again. Her brisk reply belied her almost boneless state of relaxation.

"All right, Sir, I'll be ready."

She rose to clear her skirts of tangled sheet, insinuated her way back into her husband's arms, and placed her lips next to his ear.

"But when we get back here, it will be your turn. You can guide me, I'm a quick study... and you can spend the time until then thinking about it."

It was Christopher's turn to blush.


	8. Chapter 8

The dinner, impressive by wartime standards, was being thrown by the Police Chief Commissioner of Edinburgh as an appreciation for all the hard work and struggle his staff had endured for the last three years.

The commissioner's wife Connie turned just as Christopher Foyle walked into the sitting room with his lovely young wife on his arm. Her eyebrow arched slightly—great God, she _was_ a young wife; about Connie's daughter's age, at a guess—but to Mrs Falkirk's credit she managed to smile warmly and greet them as if both were her oldest friends.

Foyle was having a hard time suppressing a grin; he was immensely proud of Samantha and of himself for catching her, but he was conscious of not wanting to appear smug in front of the many other men of his vintage at this gathering. He kept a somber countenance as best he could, quite unaware that his irrepressible eyes, which were sparkling, utterly gave the game away.

"Conneee!"

The high-pitched girlish squeal did not become the sequined lady with a robin-like posture who bore down on the hostess and the two recent arrivals.

"Millicent said that at bridge next time, you might—"

The dowager interrupted herself as she took in the young woman with the striking red-gold tresses standing beside her friend. Rapidly assessing the girl and her attire, she was diverted by her vivacious expression; the girl's eyes quite _danced._

Constance Falkirk stepped in quickly.

"Helen, may I introduce Detective Chief Superintendent Christopher Foyle of Hastings, and his—"

"But what a lovely daughter you have, Mr Foyle!" Helen exclaimed, and then wondered what on earth had so suddenly amused father and daughter that they could not contain their laughter.

The newlyweds exchanged pleasantries as courtesy demanded, but had made their way toward the Commissioner before the baffled matron had the presence of mind to ask her hostess what _that_ was all about.

After Connie discreetly imparted the true nature of the Foyles' relationship, Helen reddened, but recovered sufficiently to utter _"Well!"_ in apparent disapproval.

No matter. Commissioner Falkirk, a dignified and handsome gentleman in his own right, was the soul of graciousness. His eyes and smile showed—without a trace of lasciviousness—how lucky he thought the DCS to be.

Sam charmed nearly everyone; even the wives who had been prepared to resent her youth were won over. The bride was unfailingly polite to all, even the youngest bachelor present, seemingly unaware of his warm regard. The detective sergeant was about thirty, but looked younger.

Once again Sam found herself stealing glances at her own husband more than at anyone else in the room, inwardly cursing the tradition that separated husbands and wives at the dinner party table. Foyle was chuckling at another guest's remark when his crinkled eyes caught Sam looking at him with such love and gratitude that it stole his breath. His gaze held hers for a long moment, and into hers crept a sunrise.

* * *

Their first night together had been even more beautiful than she had dreamt it would be, and heaven knows she had tried to dream about it well before she had even been sure that Mr Foyle returned the strength of her feeling for him. Their wedding was a simple and quiet affair, at St. Clement's just round the corner from 31 Steep Lane. Luckily, Andrew was stationed close enough to be able to attend. Christopher's distinguished brother-in-law Commander Howard, Paul Milner and Mr Reid and Mr Rivers were there, and Sam's mother and father and Uncles Aubrey and Stephen, both vicars, and Stephen's wife Madeleine. Gwen was her bridesmaid, and a few other friends from the MTC had managed to be present. That celebration had been a far more modest affair than this one, but at the time, the newly wedded couple, though happy to be sharing the day with their loved ones, were secretly eager to be away on their own.

Since first admitting their love for each other, Sam and her boss had shared some acutely impassioned kisses, but he was insistent that they be married before they went any further than that, and she had agreed—though she found herself thinking more than once that if he had suddenly decided otherwise in the midst of their fervent courtship, she would not have had the will or the desire to stop him.

On her wedding night she had been only slightly nervous, for despite her lack of sexual experience she had complete confidence in his ability to teach her what she needed to know—just as he had always taught her how to look for evidence or clues, or how to question people. Patiently, without condescending to her, and taking joy from her learning or figuring things out on her own.

They would not leave the Hastings area until the next morning, so Sam's first taste of married love was at the Crescent Hotel, a small but elegant establishment with an impressive bank of windows facing the sea. Not so very long ago they had taken tea in its restaurant, and the Boss had congratulated her for the way she had wheedled the required information from the waitress, Dorothy. She added it to her collection of praise from him, some of it silent and visible only in the way he arched an approving eyebrow at her… but all of it treasured.

Suitcases set down, dinner was merely picked at (Foyle was incredulous that she had so little appetite, but he, too, was feeling too keyed up to eat), so they had retreated to their room, locked the door and looked rapt into each other's eyes.

He had an expression on his face that she'd seen only once before, when she was first telling him how she felt about him and he was struggling to believe it could be true.

"Sam... "

He shook his head. "I still keep thinking I should hurry before I wake from this fantastic dream."

She gazed at him, touched and overwhelmed, dipping her knees a little as her eyes hungrily searched his. Foyle stepped quickly to her and embraced her, kissing her even more deeply, more fully than he had felt free to do before. Sam was not altogether prepared for the sensation that overcame her during the kiss. Part nervousness, part sudden weakness, part excitement that made her moan uncontrollably with desire for him as his hands gently cradled her head and he coaxed her lips open with his tongue.

He sighed rapturously at the sweetness of her lips softly parting beneath his. The light fragrance of her skin and hair made him dizzy, and he was so rampantly aroused that he didn't trust that he could wait for her to change into her trousseau lingerie.

For her part she was already eagerly trying to pull his jacket from his broad shoulders. He released her long enough to remove it and loosen his tie. His eyes were darker blue than she ever had seen them, and glinted slightly as they drank in hers. He embraced her again even more eagerly.

"Mmmm, Chris—" her words were lost under another melting kiss. Even as his mouth grazed hers, he undid and slipped off the grey jacket of the going-away outfit she had worn to leave the reception. Sam felt a sharp pleasurable sensation within as he worked on the buttons of her blouse and eased it from her shoulders, which he then caressed almost reverently with his lips. His hands moved up from her waist to feel the shape of her breasts through the silk of her slip, and she gasped when he captured her lips again, allowing him to intensify his kiss.

He was tender and yet firm and definite in his hold of her; she had never experienced this combination before and found it exhilarating.

Sam let her hands run over the smooth fabric of his shirt, savouring the lines of the muscles of his back and arms. He had managed to undo the waistband of her lightweight wool skirt, but soon realised he would have to unzip it before he could have it off her.

She leant her forehead to his and looked up at him through her lashes in that flirtatious way that he loved. She teased, "Don't you even wish to see what a tempting honeymoon negligee I chose?"

He smiled lazily as he released her, saying, "You're tempting enough as it is, but I'll do whatever you wish, Mrs Foyle."

TBC...


	9. Chapter 9

When she reappeared she was wearing a sheer gown of some ethereally greenish blue that made him think of phosphorescent waves. He had changed to his dressing gown, so that their next embrace involved fewer layers of stiff fabric keeping them apart.

She hummed happily as he nuzzled her neck and resumed caressing her body. He drew back to look at her face, his own tender expression making him look quite youthful. She kept her eyes fastened to his as she pressed into him so that she could feel his hardening and the lovely reciprocation of his arms tightening about her. Christopher's sigh gave way to a moan as he pulled her even closer, and she too made soft sounds of pleasure.

He turned away from her as he led her to their bed and dimmed the light. She lay down, her expression inviting, as she watched him remove his dressing gown and join her. He looked as trim without his clothes as he did in his three-piece suits, though somehow a little more powerful; the hairs of his arms and the breadth of his chest and shoulders freed from natty attire. Just before he slipped in beside her she had just a glimpse of his erect shaft, and it made her inwardly gasp to think that this aspect of him, all this time hidden from her, was about to link their bodies in pleasure and make her completely his… and him completely hers.

Christopher lay beside her and stroked first her cheek, then her neck and shoulders. Samantha shivered as his light playful touch reached her silk-clad breasts and waist. He untied the satiny ribbons of the negligee and parted it, lowering his lips to make her soft nipples into ruched peaks.

"O, dear God," she murmured as he lavished attention on each one. Her hands were on his head and neck as he kept teasing each peak with his tongue, then sucking and nipping until she was breathless and wild... suddenly she felt something she had only experienced once before in his presence—all it had taken was the first time he had touched her tongue with his—but had been too embarrassed then to confess to him.

She bucked and squeezed his ear as he smiled, surprised to so quickly provoke what he thought was her first orgasm with him. He was amazed at her sensitivity; if she could come just feeling his mouth on her breast, he longed to see how she would enjoy the other sensations in store for them.

"Christopher," she whispered as he gently took her into his arms. She tentatively reached down to touch him and her voice was sympathetic.

"Oh, how you must be _aching_, my darling."

How strange it felt to touch that pulsing part of him—strange but exciting…

"Shhh... don't worry about me just yet," he reassured her, lifting her other hand to kiss the palm. "Just catch your breath. We have all the time in the world."

He resumed his infinitely gentle tour of her body with his hands, and in only moments she realised to her awe that he already was arousing her again. No sooner had this dawned on her but he was moving over her and kissing her passionately.

Christopher thrilled to the sight of her undulating, and stretching her arms luxuriantly above her head. He nudged her legs with his thigh and moved so that he was poised to enter her.

Despite the strength of his desire and although he knew she must be sufficiently lubricated after her orgasm, he took care to be gentle as he aligned himself.

"Darling, this may be a little uncomfortable at first, but if it's too painful... "

Her dewy eyes, so full of trust, looked at him.

"It's okay; I'll tell you if it's too bad. I think brisk is probably best... "

He nodded and distracted her with a kiss before taking her at her word. She cried out at the moment of penetration, but her pain lasted only for a moment.

He lifted his head to look at her with loving concern. "Are you all right?"

She nodded, giving him a little smile before her eyes shut tight at the marvelous though unfamiliar sensation of his slight withdrawal.

"I've dreamt of this for so long, Sam," he said very softly, and this time allowed his full length to push into her welcoming heat. He could feel her involuntary resistance, but he was slow and tender, giving her time to adjust to him. He curved upward perfectly and filled her completely. She had to quell the fear of pain as he touched her so deeply, but the incredible pleasure of his expansion filling her was rapidly erasing the worry. The first thing she told him, once he was completely ensheathed, was how heavenly he felt.

_This is so right,_ he thought, at the trembling ecstasy of being within her warmth. _This is where I belong._ This was such a sweet, arousing, intoxicating sensation that he felt as if his heart were about to jump out of his chest.

She caressed his back and shoulders as he moved inside her, thinking with wonder how much more exciting this was than she had anticipated. It was not just that this man seemed to have a perfect sense of timing and pace—he also was so attentive to whether she was experiencing as much pleasure as he.

Christopher smiled warmly at the ardent way she murmured his name as he stirred her. Then he gasped again as she unexpectedly squeezed her muscles around him, stimulating him to the extreme.

"Ahhh, Sam..." He shut his eyes and held her tighter. The obvious passion on his face was so beautiful that tears sprang into her eyes.

"Mmmm…yes, my love?" She adored knowing that she was bringing him such sensations. She bestowed soft tiny kisses on his neck and ears before surrendering her lips to his again. He probed open her mouth with his tongue and kissed her with such intensity that he muffled a cry from her throat. At the same time he withdrew from her slightly, then thrust back in. His forcefulness drove her wild, and she began to move her body in rhythm with his.

Their passion flared ever faster, but then he slowed so that their mutual pleasure could be savoured. Sam's deep sigh combined frustration and ecstasy. Instinctively she knew that his delaying tactics would make their culmination that much more intense, and his slow deliberateness was luxuriantly pleasurable, but a girl could only stand so much on her first race to the finish line. She was quite unaware that her long low moans stirred him so profoundly that it was all he could do not to rush toward his release; he took a deep breath and concentrated on the moment and its sensations.

He again picked up his rhythm within her hot sheath, and it was electrifying for both of them. Sam rocked her hips up to cause her lover to delve deeper, and he breathed in sharply through his teeth as she again contracted her walls around his throbbing shaft.

"My angel," he whispered. "If you keep doing that I won't be able to hold back much longer..." he shut his eyes tightly as she kissed his neck and played at nibbling his ear. Sam euphorically inhaled the appealing scent of his soap and light perspiration.

With a guttural sound he threw back his head, nearly overwhelmed by pleasure, and increased his pace, hoping he would be able to bring her over the top before he _had_ to come. Both of them were breathing hard and sweating with the effort to reach that elusive yet sought-after flight of ecstasy.

Sam cried out more and more volubly, but she was holding him so tight in her arms that he was confident that he was not hurting her. He gave a fleeting thought to the slightly ajar balcony doors; if it meant that someone on the seafront could hear them now, he was not in the least concerned.

Sam gave a final keen at the intense pulsing climax, courtesy of her husband; then she collapsed, replete. Supporting his upper body weight on his elbows, Christopher kept his place, allowing her to bask in what she had just experienced. He noted her dazed expression with some gratification.

Then her joyous eyes rested on his and she smiled with sheer delight as she languorously stretched beneath him. He blinked his hooded eyes slowly, sliding one hand up one of the arms she had thrown above her head, grasping her wrists together. His kisses soulful, he resumed his pleasurable movement, the surge of desire quickly returning as she gave him that exquisite squeeze yet again. His pace increased as he continued his ecstatic climb, until with a low cry he felt himself explode and blissfully pour into her.

Christopher rolled back against the pillows, taking Sam with him. Grinning down at him, she watched his face as he caught his breath; his eyes met hers and the look he gave her was unexpectedly vulnerable; he hoped—and experience allowed him to suspect—that she had enjoyed their union as much as he had, but he needed to be certain.

Though she would have been surprised to know of his doubts, she unwittingly and immediately reassured him.

Trailing her fingers lightly along his temple and cheek, she looked deep into his clear eyes.

"I have no words," she whispered. "You are even more wonderful than in my dreams."

Moving to lie on his side, propped on one elbow, his brow furrowed with emotion, Christopher stroked her line-free face. His hand rested on her neck as he stroked the down of her cheek with his thumb. She would still be young, he thought, even when he became old. Would he always be able to satisfy her?

tbc...


	10. Chapter 10

Finishing her dessert, Helen Magnussen happened to catch the exchange of glances between DCS Foyle and his wife and wondered if she had been too hasty in concluding that this was a case of gold-digger with a delusional older man.

Resigned to not sitting near Christopher, at least Sam could do what she could to learn more about "their" castle.

"Can anyone tell me more about Craiggary's history? We toured it today…"

"Oh, my, yes," said a great bushy-bearded gentleman with a cheery red face, who sat across and down one seat from Sam. "There is a legend. Didn't the tour leader tell you?"

Sam blushed. "Well, we rather wandered away during the tour to look round for ourselves."

The commissioner smiled understandingly, and though the older man made no comment, there was a twinkle in his eye.

"Laird Robert Craiggary lived there. He was the last of a storied family who had lived in the castle for generations, but beyond the life of a gentleman, he was a poet and writer. He did not make a great success of it, but some of his poems were published, I believe."

Sam nodded, but did not reveal that she and her husband had probably read one of Craiggary's works that very day.

"He had no heir, so the castle went to The Crown when he died in 1850."

"He hadn't any family left at all?"

"Craiggary fell in love with a woman—Nancy McEnerey—whose family would not let her marry him, as he was considerably older than she."

Sam's eyes became very large. The young sergeant was regarding her curiously.

"But he was the only love Nancy fancied—she threw herself from one of the windows, and the legend is that she haunted the castle from then on…

"Robert never got over her, so he is alleged to haunt it, too. But the story is, the ghosts cannot find each other—one tends to haunt the upper floors while the other is only seen near the entrance."

Sam breathed, "How romantic. So very sad!" She made a mental note to find out all she could the next day about the fanciful tale, even if it meant visiting the University of Edinburgh's Library or asking residents of the nearestmost houses about it for most of the day.

* * *

Christopher did not have a great deal to drink as the evening wore on, and though the conversations were interesting enough, and the company pleasant, he was already insatiably dreaming of holding his wife in his arms again.

He thought the meal would never end.

Foyle was already hoping that, once the war was over, he might arrange to retire from the Hastings force and make a trip to America to take care of Howard Paige. But he wanted to stay long enough that they might get a chance to travel in the huge country and get to know several of its different aspects.

* * *

"Would you like to journey some time to the New World?"

The two of them walked around the courtyard of the commissioner's grand house, breathing in a little fresh air before the time when the men and women would be separated, another convention of the English dinner party they both would have preferred to avoid.

"Oh, yes! I know it all from the films," she told him glibly. "That they've cowboys and gangsters and sophisticated New Yorkers and 'movie' stars with flawless teeth…"

"Ah, yes, Clark _Gable_ 'movies'_._"

He chuckled and she was warmed by her ability to bring him laughter. She stopped suddenly and he turned, looking at her curiously but happily. She did not speak except with her wide, dark eyes, which were filled with wonder at her good fortune in being married to this admirable yet modest man, who also was so kind and gentle and passionate. More than anything in the world she wanted to make him happier than she was used to seeing him. And it was clear to her that nothing would make him as happy as her happiness, doing whatever she wanted to do. How could it have converged to be any more ideal?

Somehow this message was conveyed by her expression; his grew serious and tender as he pulled her against him and kissed her, softly at first, but then with a growing strength of feeling destined to shock anyone walking outside at that moment.

Christopher and Sam pulled apart abruptly as someone indeed noisily exited the house.

"I can't believe the gall of that Lester Henderson!"

It was the shrill-voiced woman from earlier. Sam and Foyle exchanged a glance as the woman caught sight of them and stopped suddenly, mid-stride and mid-breath.

She quickly took them in, and with a discernable twinkle in her eye, drawled, "My goooodness, it's Mr Foyle and his luuuv–ly daughter."

There was silence for a few seconds; then all three laughed until they were gasping for breath.

When she could at last speak, Mrs Magnussen introduced herself and said, "I must sincerely apologise for my rudeness earlier. I apologise to you, although I am the one who must live with continually putting my foot in my mouth. Everywhere I go! You would think that I would eventually learn."

She said this all with such a jolly smile that the newlyweds could only smile and nod their acceptance of her apology.

"Now, you must tell all. How long have you been married? Only two days?! Heavens! What are you doing at this dinner party?"

Foyle finally managed to get most of a sentence in, "Yes, well, Sam wanted to dress up…"

"Oh yes, doesn't she indeed look lovely?"

Foyle nodded, gazing at his bride and quietly said, " Yes, she does."

The bride added wistfully, "I did want to dress up… and see you in evening dress, but now…"

The longing in both their eyes was evident even to someone too vain to wear her spectacles.

Sam and Christopher broke their gaze with some embarrassment. For a moment not a thing was said.

Helen Magnussen suddenly broke the silence, "Well, it's just terrible!"

Foyle and Sam looked at each other in shock. Christopher stammered as Sam's countenance grew dark and stormy.

"Yes, it's terrible—really too bad that your young wife has come down with such a terrible headache."

Sam and Christopher now looked confusedly at each other as Mrs Magnussen steamed on, "Yes, I will be glad to make your apologies to our host and hostess. I hope you'll be feeling better soon, Mrs Foyle. I'll leave you now.

"Mr Foyle, I really think you should get your wife back to your accommodations as soon as possible. It was very nice meeting you both and I certainly hope our paths will cross again." With that and a smirk Helen Magnussen swept out of the courtyard and into the house.

The newlyweds looked at each other with their mouths agape. Their fits of giggles turned in time to kisses, until Foyle pulled back.

He cocked his eyebrow, dipped his knees slightly and said, "I suppose I should get you back to our accommodations so you may rest."


	11. Chapter 11

Their progress toward their room, once they had reached their floor of their hotel and spied no one in the corridor, was not as hurried as their new-found friend had probably imagined, but this was not an indication of their patience.

Halting to kiss his wife hungrily, Christopher willed himself not to caress any part of her body but her waist, as he had a feeling that if he were to let his hands roam upward and witness her response, he might seriously contemplate taking her on the carpet of this hallway, and that would never do. As it was, her soft moan was already making him hard and he was going to have to let his silk scarf drape just so, as they moved toward their room, in order not to scandalise anyone they passed on the way.

Sam felt herself getting intensely warm and wet again at the wonderful sensation of his tongue in her mouth, and she clung to him with the conviction that, were he not supporting her in his arms, she would no longer be able to stand.

He drew back just enough to whisper against her lips, "We'd better concentrate on getting back to our bed…"

As soon as the door clicked shut he was tugging at the zipper at the side of her dress and at last lavishing her with kisses that branded those delectable shoulders. Sam bent her head back with a soft moan as he helped her out of the dress. Then she gave an abrupt gasp as he backed her against the door, pressing her tightly so that his arousal was throbbing against her abdomen and his fingers were weaving through hers to lock her hands to the door's surface.

Their kisses just seemed to go on and on, until she was clinging to him just to keep on her feet, and he led her to the bed and tried not to rush as he removed her lingerie. Fumblingly, given the heavenly distractions of his attentions, she loosened his tie, unbuttoned his shirt, opened his trousers…

Samantha bent to slowly kiss her way down his body. Foyle hadn't forgotten her promise.

"Sam… you don't have to—"

She raised her head, drank in his desire-clouded eyes. "You think I feel that I have to? What if I _want_ to? I want every part of you. To know every part of you. I'm not sure exactly what to do, but you can help me, can't you? Will I make you uncomfortable?"

_Dear God, have you any idea, woman? _

Foyle's lips quirked to one side as he chewed the inside of his cheek. "Probably not."

They looked at each other in loving merriment before she resumed.

Foyle had difficulty relaxing at first, terrified that he would go off like a starting pistol at the first touch of her mouth, but she eased him into a less tense state of mind by massaging his arms and then his hips as she placed light kisses on his neck and chest, abdomen and pelvic bone. He lay silent until she slowly ran her exploring hand around his hard shaft—then he took his breath in sharply. It was not the first time she had touched that part of him, but it was the first time she had spent so long concentrating on it exclusively, building up his anticipation, which was already pretty high. With a soft moan indicating definite desire she bent over him and kissed along his erection. The lift of his hips was quite as involuntary as his long, deep groan.

Satisfied that she must be on the right track, Samantha employed her tongue as well as her lips. He reached down to gently stroke her cheek, his breathing quickening as he expressed further wordless approval, and Sam contemplated what she should do next. A trifle hesitantly she tried to take him into her mouth, whereupon he strained not to move forward; still she gagged slightly at the size of him. Christopher tried desperately to summon focus so that he could guide her as she had requested earlier.

Sam glanced up to see him open his blue eyes, and the look in them held so much love that she felt very emotional.

"It's all right, darling Sam," he whispered. "There isn't really any need to… er—just… umm, just think of having an ice cream cone. Grasp and lick around the cone, occasionally place all of your mouth upon it… you don't have to take it all at once…"

This was an immense help to the gourmand Sam, who, not having consumed any ice cream since 1939, could imagine it with almost as much verve as she could imagine bringing her husband pleasure. So she fell to her goal with enthusiasm and was soon driving him nearly out of his mind. Christopher tangled his fingers in her hair as her lips and tongue caressed him, and the sounds he made ran chills of excitement up her spine. She felt such a lovely, giving sort of power as she made him writhe and cry out. It was all so arousing that she could scarcely wait for the feel of him inside her. Given that thought, she again tried to approximate with her mouth what he could feel when buried within her; she found that by easing him in a little at a time she was able to take more than half his length without difficulty.

He was in heaven, not only because the pleasure of her lips stimulating him was incredibly intense, but at the fullness in his heart that she would be so generous and adventurous as to try this.

Sam paused to catch her breath. A droplet of pearly liquid appeared upon the deep mauve of his tip, and she swirled her tongue slowly around to consume it. Behind the vicarage where she had grown up were some chestnut trees, and their unique scent when they bloomed was exactly the one she now breathed. It always had made her restless and stimulated, and now she knew why as she enjoyed the feel of him, trembling and hot beneath her lips, starting to thrust involuntarily between them.

He could see in her eyes that she was enjoying it, that she was taking pleasure in making him shiver each time she caressed the tip of his shaft with her lips as he moved inside her mouth.

"O, God… Samantha…"

His voice sounded so full of desire; so full of need... that it made her sigh happily and close her eyes for an instant. Sam started to feel almost as aroused as he was as she explored every part of him with her mouth and tongue.

Momentarily she gasped for air, leaning her forehead against his thigh as she tried to calm herself down. Then he shuddered and groaned as she moved her lips back to his swollen tip and softly began to suck.

She could feel his hands on her head again, grasping her hair and trying to urge her towards him, but she went on just sucking his head and licking the tiny hole until she knew from his ragged breaths that he couldn't stand it any more; then, she took nearly all his length in her mouth and started to suck him faster as her fingers wandered lower.

Sam looked up to see a look of wildness in his eyes that she had never seen before, and it thrilled her. She could feel a vigorous, rising throbbing and it rushed through her mind that she wasn't now sure what to do, but it was time…

He was beyond controlling his lust as she teased and tormented him, and though he worried about her teeth, he abandoned himself to moving in and out of her succulent mouth. Her light fingering of his balls added to this took him over the edge and with a strangled groan he erupted like a volcano; the sight of her locking onto him to try to take all of his semen was exquisite. Never in all his sex life had he felt anything this good, this uninhibited, this... generous. And she had never done this before.

"Sam…" He whispered it, spent and wet and suddenly, tearfully, wanting to kiss her, to thank her prayerfully. Then she was there, her soft lips on his, and despite his breathlessness he took them more passionately than he ever had before.

When they parted she stroked his cheek as they gazed into each other's eyes. Christopher just shook his head with wonder before he said, simply, "Thank you."

She gave him that sun-drenched smile. "Mmmm. I never meant these words so sincerely: "You're welcome."


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Sincerest thanks to GiuliettaC for her beta work on this chapter, and to TartanLioness for moral support!

* * *

Sam had wakened with the light and scurried to the loo, quite grateful for the deep blue fleece dressing gown that had been a wedding gift from her husband. As she returned bouncily to the bed she reveled in the warmth he brought to it, a tug of amusement at her lips at how deep under he still was, even though she'd had to exert some effort to emerge from his arms.

The serenely happy young woman lay on her side and just drank in Christopher's dear face. He really had rather impressive eyelashes, in that surprising way of some men, and his complete relaxation made him look quite young and boyish. At the same time that his wife adored that child-like peace, she found herself missing the amazing changeability of his facial expressions; the depth of emotion so often visible in his clear eyes. Sam drew a sigh as she traced his soft lips with one finger, and to her combined guilt and delight, he stirred, murmuring something in his sleep.

"Sammm… are you…? Hmm. What time is it?" He said, barely audibly, turning over with a luxuriant yawn. He had donned his striped flannel pyjamas before falling asleep at last, earlier that morning. The collar was a bit askew and a large breast pocket contributed further to the little-boy theme. They were not at all alluring, Sam thought to herself, and yet it didn't matter a whit.

Since returning to the toasted marshmallow of an eiderdown, she'd been warming her hands, and now quickly, before she gave it too much thought, she found the hem of his pyjama jacket and slid her hands upward along his ribs.

"Sam! What in blazes…" His eyes were at their widest in an instant, and his lips twitched violently as he tried not to laugh.

His wife just hummed in contentment as she pushed her palms tightly against his pectoral muscles and then massaged his collarbone. Foyle sighed deeply and grasped her waist; in less than a second she was beneath him.

* * *

As Samantha Foyle later swung her way down the steep hill toward the town centre she marveled at the clear warmth of the morning… it felt like a South Downs summer's day. She smirked to think that, during this honeymoon trip, she'd not had to endure any of the bone-chilling cold previously associated in her mind with Scotland; between occasional unusually temperate days like this one, and her husband's solicitude, she'd been comfortably warm and relaxed.

The weather in fact was so lovely that she almost regretted her decision to spend most of the day inside a dim library or dusty old archive, but she was quite determined to find out more about the legend of Craiggary, and Christopher was committed to golf and drinks with the Commissioner. She sighed—but not with unhappiness. She missed him whenever she was not with him, of course, but her unease was assuaged by the knowledge that he would listen tonight with fascination to whatever she found out, and that she could in turn hear a full account of his day (probably punctuated with an amusing variety of facial quirks and wry remarks).

Sam nodded with a beaming smile at an urchin with long dark curls and dimples who waved at her through the checked curtains of a restaurant window; then she stopped for a moment to watch another group of children at play in the park. Would she be a mother by this time next year? Christopher had carefully left this decision up to her, but she could see the tiny spark of hope in his eyes whenever they discussed it, so they opted not to actively prevent it. Certainly, she thought with a blush and a private roll of the eyes, the odds were in favour given the extent of their activity!

In one way Christopher Foyle was a revelation, Sam reflected, but in another way perhaps she was not so very surprised at his level of romantic intensity. She thought back to the first few months of their acquaintanceship, to the quietness of him, the vague air of mystery. He was not forthcoming about personal matters, not given to overt demonstrations of emotion, and yet she had from the beginning felt a sense that she could read every tiny facial tic and flash within those blue eyes. Even the first week they had worked together, she would catch him looking at her in a way that made her quite breathless, but it was not a lustful or intrusive sort of look… it was a sharing look, a look of dawning realisation. A look of warmth and wonder that he'd found a kindred spirit—at least, that's how he'd later described his feelings to her.

Sam blinked back tears. Her darling Mr Foyle was now her husband. It was still difficult for her to believe how fortunate she was.

The Craiggary Glen branch library rather looked like a church, with an arch window above its entrance and two high windows flanking that. The stained glass was all blue, and cast a pleasing azure glow within as she entered, diffusing somewhat her chagrin at abandoning glorious blue sky for what she'd feared might be a gloomy interior.

Another fear—that of encountering a severe and disapproving librarian like Mrs Benbenisty in Lyminster—was dispelled by the woman seated informally at the sun-bathed librarian's desk, sipping tea as she leafed through a book. Sam looked up to see that high windows on the east side of the building allowed plenty of sunshine to shaft down towards the great desk. Although the librarian was middle-aged she was slim with fair skin and hair, and possessed of such light green-gold eyes that the sun lent her an otherworldly air and made her look decidedly young; reminiscent of a woodland sylph in a favourite childhood book of Sam's.

She smiled in welcome and stood as Sam entered. "Good morning," she said, in a hushed voice.

"Hello," Samantha said, mindful of keeping her own tones muted, though there seemed to be no one else present in the reading room at the moment. "I wonder if you might help me with a bit of historical research. I'm interested in learning more about the legend of Castle Craiggary?"

The eyebrow arch and oblique smile of the fair library lady reminded Sam for all the world of one of her husband's more ironic facial mannerisms. The young wife found herself squinting a little inquiringly in response.

"Ah, yes… the legend," said the woman. She was almost smirking as she gave Sam a measuring look, gauging whether at long last she might actually have found someone who could accept something other than the usual tourist pablum. "And would you like to read versions of the ballad of the poor star-crossed lovers? Or would you like to know what _really_ happened?"


	13. Chapter 13

Christopher Foyle was trying not to look amused as he listened to his wife's account of her day. He didn't want Sam to think that he found her to be some entertaining little frippery, or to believe that he didn't take her endeavours seriously. In truth he greatly admired her keen mind and her curiosity—she had the makings of a good detective. But her excitement over the news she had learned today made her breathless and wide-eyed—it was that look she got when intrigued and eager to help him with cases—and it made her so irresistibly lovely and something of a force to be reckoned with, all at the same time.

He cleared his throat. "Sam. Begin at the beginning again. What you learned from Sergeant Enwright was that the Laird of Craiggary was in love with a woman—a much younger one." His eyes smiled as he hastened to add this before she could chime in to remind him.

"Yes. And the legend is that her parents (or in some versions, her guardian) would not allow her to marry him, so she committed suicide by jumping from the castle tower. Well, that's as one story has it. Another is that she ran down to the brook and put stones in her pockets. It's this multitude of differing tales that got Miss Pendleton curious about the whole thing."

"And Miss Pendleton is the librarian you met today?"

"Yes. She's in her forties, I think, and her grandmother used to tell her the story. It's all such a muddle—some legends have Robert killing himself Romeo-style once he found Nancy, some have him dying alone and destitute in the castle. The one thing upon which all the tales agree is that he left the property to the Crown; but Miss Pendleton did some research in London, and she found that at the time of his death, he was living in London. With his wife." Sam at last paused to take a deep breath.

"So you think the laird recovered from his heartbreak after all?"

"Miss Pendleton—and I—think he married Nancy!"

Foyle turned at the knock on their hotel room door and let in a ruddy-faced lady bearing a tea tray. As soon as she had nodded to them and exited, he sat down to accept a cup of tea from his wife and resumed, "Do you now?"

"Well, the name of Laird Robert's wife was Nancy, at any rate. So Millicent—Miss Pendleton—has always wanted to get to the bottom of what she thinks was actually a far more interesting story. She has a theory: that Nancy simply ran off, and that Robert kept her secret, perhaps even allowing the idea to take hold that she had died. Then later he gave up the castle just to go and be with her… whatever it was she was doing. That's what we'd like to know."

She tried to analyse the look on her husband's face. A fascinating blend, as ever: a poorly suppressed twinkle, a warm dose of admiration, and a touch of consternation. Ever hoping to please him, she decided to explore the consternation.

"Darling, what's wrong?" She tilted her head and gave him that trademark squinting peer.

Foyle crumpled up mouth and chin and shrugged. "Nothing really, my love… only…"

Now Sam, raising her chin, looked knowing. _"Mmmh?"_

He laughed. "Well, it's only that… well, what with a mystery and an investigation, don't you think this is rather becoming what Dorothy L Sayers might term a 'busman's honeymoon'?"

His Sam furrowed her brow for a moment; then her face was radiant. "Ahh… I never thought of that! You are my very own Lord Peter!"

The sceptical and comical look he shot her tipped her over into gales of laughter. By the time she recovered she was sitting on his lap, having efficiently put both their teacups out of harm's way.

She hummed happily as she nuzzled his neck, noting with satisfaction the way he was hardening beneath her bottom. "I'm awfully glad you haven't a valet like Peter Wimsey's Bunter, though. More ready privacy, that way."

"Sam…" he scolded, albeit half-heartedly. _Heavens, this woman will be the death of me._

"Hmmm?" she nibbled his ear. She then bore a smile both wicked and sweet, one that he might have described as 'winsome', had he been able to see her. But his eyes were squeezed tight shut as he drew a sudden breath.

"What do you say we… oh, God…" he trailed off in a groan as his wife nestled further into his decidedly interested lap, her lips on his neck this time.

Her fingers were raking what remained of his hair; she adored the soft curls that still felt thick just at his neck, and the texture of the wispier part atop his head.

Shortly after their mutual admission of love, she had asked to see a family photograph album, and greatly enjoyed the portraits of him taken many years before: a formal babyhood shot in which he was dressed in a little white gown, looking quite startled; another strangely familiar expression, this one of solemnity, on his eight-year-old countenance; the rakish smile of a youth with a great deal more hair (and darker too, in those days); and the stern (if slightly worried) expression of a young soldier. In photos of Rosalind Sam admired the first Mrs Foyle's dark, almost Mediterranean beauty.

Samantha had sighed at the sweetness of a candid shot of Foyle, squatting and reaching to remove baby Andrew from a nursery chair. The tiny black-haired boy was looking at him with an hilarious expression of uncertainty, one little hand still curling about edge of the wooden chairback as if to prevent himself being removed. His father's hair was tousled at his forehead and he had his shirtsleeves rolled. His large hand spanned the toddler's side; he was also speaking as he made ready to lift, his eyebrows up high as if to say, 'That's my boychap; ready and… alley oop!'

Just before her husband kissed her into insensibility, Sam marvelled at the possibility of bringing him another infant nearly 25 years later.

Christopher lost himself in the sweetness of her mouth; as she'd sipped her tea only moments before she literally tasted a little like honey, and he surrendered to the sensation of running his hands over her body. The soft grey wool of her skirt was pleasant to the touch, but as nothing to the satin of her own skin, and he began to fumble blindly with the buttons of her blouse as she distracted him further by turning in his arms and pressing her chest to his.

Sam was already moaning ardently, but Foyle was not feeling the kind of urgency that characterised the first few times he had made love to Sam; this was the kind of slow, luxurious necking they had done when they knew it could go no further, and he actually found it deeply sensuous and satisfying.

As she made to help him with the task of the buttons, he paused and pulled back slightly, looking into her eyes with his jaunty half-smile. "Sam."

She froze with her doe-eyed look, almost as if worried that she was to be chastised in some way, and he drew his brow up in pained sympathy.

"Shh… don't… this is lovely, just like this…"

"Christopher? You don't want… ?"

He shut and reopened his eyes slowly. "Mmm. Yes I want. I _so_ want. But I want this first, a little longer… please…"

* * *

TBC…


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: When in doubt, just keep on writing lemony romance. Profuse thanks to (and I'm in awe of) my beta, Giulietta C._

* * *

_Very well,_ Sam thought. _My husband has decided to torment me. _

Christopher tenderly pushed her shoulders towards the curved armrest of the settee until she was half-reclined along it, then shifted his hips from beneath her so that he could lean over her, pinning her wrists at each side of her head. With maddening deliberateness he kissed and nipped behind and beneath her ear ("Oh, dear God," she murmured somewhat godlessly) along her downy neck, her collarbone... He lifted his head with a sigh and lightly tugged her earlobe with his lips. It was only with him that Sam had ever felt that tantalising gush of moisture within... hot, delicious, making her aware of what she needed most...

"Christopher..." She writhed beneath him, pressing her body up into his, and moaned with unrestrained longing, _"Please!"_

He kissed her deeply, his tongue flirting with hers as she struggled to keep up. She pushed back just enough to force him to release her arms, then gave just one more valiant attempt to persuade him to increase the pace NOW as one newly freed hand sneaked to the front of his trousers. She grasped him through the fabric and was rewarded with her favourite sound in all the world, a deeply sensual groan of approval from his chest. For such a quiet man he made a multitude of beautiful sounds when he was making love, and she found each one thrilling. Still he paused and gazed into her eyes with his sweet, calm blue.

"Don't you miss..." His crisp, confidential half-whisper, and his hand firmly caressing the back of her neck, made Sam pant involuntarily… "Don't you miss when we had to hold back, and it would make us take things so slowly... ?"

Samantha took as deep a breath as she could, struggling to restrain herself. "I... well, I suppose... _Christopher_!" Her tone was solidly impatient as she squirmed in pleasurable agony again.

She felt his head shaking slightly next to hers.

_Is he __**laughing**__?_ she wondered, not quite sure whether she were cross, or about to giggle in her own right.

He murmured in her ear, "Try? For me?"

Sam would do anything for him, just so long as he let her test her wings from time to time.

Her breath danced softly about his face as she kissed his temple and then his cheek. Gentlest kisses feathered over each spread of lines beside each eye. With her lips she grasped an eyelid and delighted in his chuckle at the sensation of his lid softly pinched upward; then she nibbled each lush eyelash and tugged and kissed each closed eye as if it were a little mouth.

Christopher shivered with pleasure at her languorous pace and the touches that afforded peaceful therapy and stimulation all at once.

She drew back to examine the expression of blissful satisfaction on his face, and smiled proudly. He cracked one eye open to see what she was up to, and his eyebrow quirked upward endearingly.

"Mmm, well done, Miss Stewart."

She wriggled again. "Is my patience to be rewarded, then?"

"Er... all in good time."

He began to echo her light kisses and nips upon her eyes and then moved back to her ear and neck, to just the spot he knew would elicit a long purr of contentment.

Happily resigned, Sam stretched beneath him, her arms winding around his neck as he nuzzled and caressed. When he drew back with a sinful glance and suddenly captured her mouth, she surprised him by slipping down further still, skirt hiking as she went, and wrapping her long legs about his hips.

They poured soft moans into each other's mouths and he resumed his unbuttoning of her shirt, but the feverish way they were now moving their lower bodies made each wonder if they would even get as far as shedding all their clothes this time.

Nonetheless, after another lovely round of teasing, Christopher got to his feet and divested himself of his shirt and trousers. By the time his fingers had reached the band of his shorts he was tightly pressed against a young woman who had stood and dropped her skirt and knickers in the same heartbeat.

Sam boldly reached for him through the slit of his undergarment, went up on tiptoe, and with an unabashed grunt of relief sank him up and into her.

"Oh, Sam," he exclaimed, wholly unprepared for the intensity of the sensation. "You are…"

His words gave way to a strangled moan as she elevated upward again and then slid down, clenching her internal muscles as she went.

Teasingly, she took her slow revenge, her heart fluttering at his lost look of alarm.

"It's only fair, Mr Foyle, that I should take my time."

He sighed deeply as he shut his eyes and let his head fall back, letting her set their pace. Things were soon putting some strain on his back, though, so he slipped out of her and led her towards their bed. He helped her out of her blouse and took her into his arms again.

Sam struggled to keep standing, but those kisses of his were so scorching that hanging onto his shoulders was the only thing preventing her from melting to the floor.

Christopher drew back from her all at once and the look in his eyes was both loving and lethal. Hers barely had time to widen before she had been turned around and drawn against him from behind. She couldn't help it; she began to tremble in anticipation; of what, she wasn't even quite sure. As they stood she could feel his hard arousal nudge her between her legs; he moved his hands smoothly from her arms to her breasts and then let one hand wander still further down.

She kept murmuring his name and a series of sweet oaths as his fingers stroked her and he ground his hips against her, his tongue probing her ear before he softly bit her neck. At her little cry he smiled and lightly, slowly passed a thumb back and forth over one nipple.

"Now you're taking _your _time again," she gasped, "and I know I'll go _mad_ if you keep on…

In answer he tugged down the bed sheets and steered her onto the mattress, his fingertips pushing gently on her back, bending her forwards to her hands and knees. Sam felt a new and pleasant kind of wantonness in the safety of her husband's hands; and once again each new sensation was delicious.

When he braced her hips and entered her this time she felt as if she were being swept out to sea by a warm wave of desire; the different angle of this position brought her even clearer pleasure than before and she had to suppress a shrill cry of passion.

"Shhh," she heard just beside her ear as he held her in place and thrust in again, forceful and hard, but tender at the same time. His own struggle to remain quiet in his throes was all the more stimulating; he managed to keep the groan within his throat, but she sensed from his tremulous outward movement how barely under control he felt.

His chest curving over her back, he ran his fingers through her silken hair and moved it aside so that he could kiss her neck. "You thrill me, Sam. The most beautiful woman in the world is mine. You hold my beating heart between your hands, my darling."

Sam closed her eyes tightly, so overcome by emotion and ecstasy that her whole body dissolved into a sigh. Well… perhaps not _all_ of her_._ She arched her back ever so slightly, nestling her face near his and subtly moving backward closer to him until he was even deeper inside her. In moments she was gripped with the transcendent shudders of her climax, and Christopher in turn was lost in the heaven of her snug warmth and love. With a startled cry he caved in to his own overwhelming release.

* * *

The afternoon light had given way to dark clouds by the time they fell into a slumber, a lovely weariness overtaking them after their exertions. Christopher was awakened suddenly by a rumble of thunder, and felt Sam stir lazily in his arms, murmuring something indistinct but irresistibly endearing. Though wryly thankful that the landlord had not yet been sufficiently attentive to knock and offer to build them a fire, he worried that the growing chill might render Sam uncomfortable while she was getting ready for dinner. If he tried to extricate himself from her tight embrace, however, he'd surely wake her. He nuzzled her hair.

"Samantha… love…"

She stretched like a cat, a long humming sound her only answer, but then surprised him by opening her sweet dark-brown eyes and looking steadily into his.

At the same time that her look was warm and openly adoring, it was full of wonder.

"Whatever did I do to deserve you?" she asked simply.

Foyle felt his heart leap in his chest. There was a part of him inclined to laugh at the absurdity of her question; another part winced at the painful notion that she might imagine herself undeserving in any way; and yet another part of him was predisposed to weep with gratitude.

He stroked back from her face some strands of her now-chaotic hair. _So beautiful._

"Darling Sam, I could ask you the very same thing. This war doesn't give people what they deserve, but by some miraculous quirk of Fate, we've found each other. So let's honour that good fortune by creating as much happiness for each other as we can, for as long as we can."

Sam gave a soft, contented sigh, and of one accord they lay back down in each other's arms for a little while longer, as neither could bear to abandon a state so perfect.


End file.
